


Tidbits

by Seraphymnal



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gay, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Universe, Shorts, gay shit, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 06:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seraphymnal/pseuds/Seraphymnal
Summary: Hi I’m Zad welcome to my hell universe.This is just gonna be a place for me to post the smaller, one-off stories I have for my ungodly amount of OCs. Most ships will be between an OC of mine and one of my boyfriend’s because I am a gay bitch. I’ll put who belongs to who in the summaries
Relationships: OC/OC, OMC/OMC
Kudos: 1





	1. Congratulations, You’re a Doll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters here are my OC René (just after he’s been turned) and my lovely bf’s OC Asmodai.

For the third time that day, René retches.

“You’re going to have to do it eventually,” Asmodai drawls from where he’s stood—a few feet away, leaning against a tree. “Human food just won’t cut it anymore. You need blood.”

René glances over at his companion. Asmodai is bathed in moonlight, looking positively angelic with his broad shoulders and sharp, striking features. In comparison, René feels he looks like a sickly beast one might find dead at their doorstep. 

Which is, he supposes, fitting. 

“I cannot,” René rasps, wiping spittle from his mouth. His eyes find their way back to the issue at hand; in front of him sits an ensnared rabbit. It twitches with fear, eyes darting around, searching for an out. It can’t be more than six months old. 

And René is supposed to kill it. 

“I  _ cannot _ ,” says René again, forcing as much conviction into his trembling voice as he can manage. “It—it is but a baby. It— _ mon Dieu.”  _ He ducks his head once more, unable to bear the sight of the thing. 

He doesn’t hear Asmodai move, but the other vampire must be behind him, for suddenly a hand is cradling the back of René’s neck. He startles. 

“Hush,” Asmodai admonishes softly. His fingers are combing through René’s hair now, touch gentle. “Never forget that you, too, are an animal, my love.” He’s shifted; now he’s knelt next to René, hand still carding though his silver locks. “You must eat to survive, and, therefore, you must kill.”

“But—“ René begins, but Asmodai only hushes him once more. His hand moves to René’s chin, which he grips gently and uses to make René look at him. 

“God has cursed us,” René’s maker tells him. “Why not make him regret it by thriving?”

René stares into Asmodai’s eyes, searching for something—anything—to help him believe the other’s words. What he finds is fondness; care; perhaps even…?

Face now burning, René glances back to the pitiful rabbit. It’s struggling now, as if it can slip away while the two are distracted with conversation. René can hear its heartbeat. His mouth waters. 

Asmodai’s hand is back in René’s hair, but the previous gentleness is replaced with fingers fisting in the long strands. He uses his hand to force René’s face closer to the rabbit. “Eat,” he all but purrs. 

And René can no longer resist. 

Inhumanly fast, his arm shoots out to take hold of the rabbit, gripping it by its scruff. He brings it to his lips, and he can feel his teeth moving to accommodate his elongating canines. Unable to slow himself, he bites down into the creature’s jugular, blood bursting into his mouth. 

Euphoria. 

Truly, that’s what this is. A starving man eating a three course meal. The rarest of delicacies. Distantly, he hears himself moaning at the flavor, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s never felt so close to another living thing in his life. In its blood, René can taste the rabbit’s whole ancestry. Can taste its fear. Underneath it all, there is a sense of calm, as if this makes sense to the animal. As if it was born for this very moment. 

Lord, if animals taste this good, what would  _ humans _ taste like—-

It is this thought that pulls René out of the trance he was in. With a gasp, he jerks back, rabbit dropping to the cool ground. It stays where it’s fallen, wide, empty eyes gazing up blankly up into René’s. 

René heaves. Nothing comes up, and thank God for that, else he’d have to start the dreaded ordeal over again. 

He’s shaking now, but he doesn’t realize until he feels calm, steady arms wrap around him. It’s Asmodai; of course it is. Asmodai, who’s been there from the beginning. Who made René a monster. 

“I hate you,” René cries out in anguish, and he’s sobbing now. He can’t  _ stop  _ sobbing. He’d not been made to kill, and he’d just proven that to himself. 

Asmodai only holds him tighter. “I know,” he replies. “I love you.” He says it with such sincerity, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I love you.”

And god help him, but René loves him, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two...are some of my favorites. Their story is a lot but I may have to start it soon.
> 
> Title comes from a song by the same name by The Technicolors


	2. The Way You Run My Soul In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seraphel belongs to me, and Malachai belongs to my boyfriend

For the first time in weeks, it was raining. Not just raining, really; it was an absolute downpour, the impact of the droplets rattling the small window pains of Seraphel’s home. It didn’t bother the Protector—the plants sang in time with the beat of the fall, more than happy to be gifted with such a bountiful feast, and Seraphel could never be upset when his plants were happy. 

Aside from the sounds of the storm, Seraphel’s home was quiet. Such a thing wouldn’t usually be odd, but the past few months had been punctuated with more chatter than Seraphel had had in the past few years of his life. His shifter counterpart (and Seraphel did not blush, but thinking of the other being in such a way made a little thrill dart about his ribs) was talkative enough for the both of them, and didn’t seem to mind Seraphel’s contemplative silences in the slightest, instead filling them up with his own musings. Seraphel supposed it would be annoying, were it anyone but Malachai. 

Now, though. Now, Malachai was silent, staring out the window, apparently lost in thought. So much so that he’d not taken notice to the curious gaze Seraphel casted at him. 

The shifter had been growing out his hair, Seraphel realized with a small start. It was surprising the usually observant Protector hadn’t noticed sooner, though he supposed he was more than a little caught up in the whirlwind that was Malachai as of late. Still...Seraphel frowned ever so slightly, drawing closer to the shifter. The magician could be wrong—had only recently been researching shifter customs—but wasn’t letting one’s hair grow a sign of…?

Malachai jumped, a startled noise leaving his lips as Seraphel laid his hands on the other’s head. The shifter attempted to twist around to shoot him a look Seraphel could only assume was one part inquisitive, one part annoyed, but the Protector held him still. “What in the world are you—?”

“Shh,” Seraphel hushed the other, combing his fingers gently through the slightly-tangled locks, silently reveling in the little shiver it elicited. “Stop fussing. I’m just braiding your hair.”

From where he was stood, Seraphel could only see the tips of Malachai’s pointed ears, but he saw the flush that overtook them. Still, the shifter settled, fidgeting only minutely as Seraphel began sectioning off locks to braid. “I don’t…” Malachai began, then paused, cleared his throat, and tried again. “You realize braiding has a more... _ intimate  _ meaning to shifters, Seraphel? It’s not just an idle activity for friends.”

Seraphel hummed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Oh?” he asked, continuing despite Malachai’s warning. “Is that so? And what might that be?” He finished off one braid—a bit clumsy as he’d not had much experience with such a task—before moving to the left to begin another. 

Malachai’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but Seraphel could tell it was more from nervousness at the magician’s question than it was from discomfort. The shifter huffed out a breath before speaking, his words slightly clipped now. “It’s usually something done by...by  _ betrothed.  _ To show their affection for the other. Their  _ romantic  _ affection.”

Unable to keep up his innocent front any longer, Seraphel began to laugh, ducking his head a bit as chuckles shook his shoulders. How  _ nervous  _ Malachai was! How afraid he’d scare Seraphel off! It was almost—no, it  _ was  _ cute. Seraphel hadn’t used that adjective to describe the shifter before. He supposed it fit, though. 

Hearing his laughter, Malachai tugged away from the Protector and spun around in his seat, the anger on his face poorly masking the fear. “Oh, it’s funny, is it?” he asked, shooting to his feet, nervous energy shooting off of him. “‘Haha, silly dragon, thinking someone as important as  _ myself  _ could  _ ever  _ feel such a way for  _ you!’”  _ He pitched his voice higher, obviously trying to mock Seraphel’s way of speaking (which was odd, as the magician’s voice was nearly as low as the shifter’s). He looked about to storm off, and, despite the mirth still warming Seraphel’s chest, a cold spike of fear shot through him as well. The last thing he wanted was for Malachai to leave in a huff and hide away from him. 

Seraphel laid a gentle hand on the shifter’s shoulder, his laughter quelled though his eyes still showed his amusement. “Malachai,” he began, voice soft yet commanding, and the shifter paused, eyeing him warily. “Calm yourself.”

His companion blew out an angry, smoke-infused breath from his nose. “So sorry for being upset with you  _ laughing  _ at me.” His voice was a low growl, his eyes darting away to glare at the door. 

The Protector sighed fondly, then leaned in closer to Malachai, thankful he was rather tall for his species and therefore around the same height as the shifter. He kept his right hand steady on the other’s shoulder and moved his left to cup Malachai’s cheek, forcing their eyes to meet—fearful and unsure staring into calm and loving. “I knew what it meant, Malachai,” Seraphel all-but murmured, his smile growing as the shifter’s eyes widened. “You almost wound me, thinking I knew so little about your ways.”

For a moment, sputtering was his only response. Then, Malachai seemed to get a hold of himself, brows furrowed as he spoke. “But—then why did you—“

“Your hair is longer than when we first met,” Seraphel interrupted, the hand on Malachai’s cheek moving to play with a few close-by strands. “Longer than if you’d just forgotten to cut it once or twice. Tell me,  _ alpha,  _ has someone caught your eye?”

Malachai swallowed audibly, eyes darting between Seraphel’s. He was so visibly uncertain in a way he rarely was.  _ ‘Cute,’  _ thought Seraphel again. 

“Perhaps someone has,” said the shifter, voice wavering ever so slightly. “And if so? What would you say?”

A hum, Seraphel looking up in mock-thought. “I suppose,” he started, looking back into Malachai’s eyes and leaning closer so their breaths mingled, “I’d say they’d best watch themselves. You see, I’ve already laid claim, and  _ nothing  _ gets between a Protector and what he wants.”

The breath Malachai was taking hitched in his throat, and he closed his eyes tightly, growling quietly. “Seraphel,” he began, tone warning, “if you are playing some sort of game, so help me—“

“The flower blooms nightly,” Seraphel replied, referring to the moonlily Malachai had fetched for him months ago; the moonlily he’d set carefully in a vase and cared for so diligently, making sure it would stay alive; the moonlily which had surprised him by not only surviving, but thriving, sprouting new leaves and opening its petals ever evening beneath the moonlight. “She feels how I care for you, and she grows on.” He brushed Malachai’s cheek with his thumb. “Would I have kept her, protected her so, had you meant so little to me? Would I not have ground her for a potion? Why care for her if I do not for you, too?”

With another growl, Malachai pushed forward, pressing his lips roughly against the magician’s. Seraphel gave a laugh, part surprised and part relieved, before returning the kiss with everything he had. It was chaste, simply a desperate press, but Seraphel felt shaken apart, like the world was re-aligning itself, something twining between his ribs, settling there permanently. 

When they parted, Seraphel kept his eyes closed, breath uneven as he tried to grow used to the new world he inhabited. His fingers were trembling minutely against Malachai’s skin, and he heard the shifter huff out a laugh. 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so shaken, o’ Great Protector,” his beloved teased, bumping their foreheads together lightly. “You’d best stop that, lest I begin to worry I’ve broken you.”

Seraphel peeked open an eye, heart stuttering in his chest as he stared into Malachai’s eyes, seeing them for the hundredth time—for the first time. “The opposite,” he assured the other. “Malachai, I have never felt so whole.”

Another laugh from the shifter, but it trembled, fit for bursting with emotion. “So very cliché,” Malachai admonished as he nuzzled Seraphel with his nose. “Careful, dear. You’re growing soft.”

“For you,” came Seraphel’s breathless reply as he drew his arms around his shifter, pulling him closer. “Only for you.” And he moved forward, slotting their lips together once more, and the plants sang, for love of the rain and the new rightness of the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seraphel and Malachai probably won’t get their own story—they originated from a comic my boyfriend and I have been playing around with for years. They’re important, but they’re side characters.
> 
> Title comes from Bad Dream by The Jungle Giants


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